THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ASHES  AND  SPARKS 


"Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind!" 

—From  Shellty's  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND. 


ASHES  AND  SPARKS 


RICHARD  WIGHTMAN 


Author  of  "The  Things  He  Wrote  to  Her, 
"Soul-Spur,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO 

19*5 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
RICHARD  WIGHTMAN 


Published,   October,  1915 


To 

My   Lady  Patricia 


904133 


IN  THIS  VOLUME 

PAGE 

AT   THE    SHRINE    OF   THE   HILL-BROOK 3 

THE  LANE 5 

LURE   O'    DREAMS 7 

MY    BODY    AND    I 10 

HER   ROSARY I3 

THE    GRASSHOPPER    AEROPLANES 14 

THE  FRONTIERSMAN l6 

IN  THE  NEW  COUNTRY ig 

THE    CHATTEL 2O 

THE    DISADVANTAGES    OF    CHAZY 22 

HER  NEED  SUPREME 24 

A   WAYSIDE   REVERIE 25 

THE    SCULPTOR 27 

THE   CYNIC'S  ADVICE 2Q 

ADIRONDACKS 31 

THE  PILGRIM 33 

THE   NAKED   DAY 35 

THE    SOUL'S    SONG    OF    INDEPENDENCE 36 


THE    PLOWMAN 


39 


MOOD   O'   JUNE 40 

THE  WHITE  OLD  LADY 43 

THE    SERVANTS 46 

MARGUERITE 48 

TRANSIENT   SYMBOLS 50 

THE    TINDERBOX 52 

SEVENTY-ODD 53 

THE  MENTOR 55 


IN  THIS  VOLUME 

PAGE 

THE    GREAT   MAN 56 

SING  ON,  O  HEART 58 

THE    DISTINCTION    OF    DIFFERENCE go 

THE    EXPOSITION 62 

THE  FRIEND 67 

THE  GAUNTLET  FLUNG  TO  DEATH 69 

LINCOLN 70 

THE   INDIVIDUAL 74 

THE    MAN-CHILD 76 

THE  PATH  TO  HEAVEN ." 79 

THE    QUEST gl 

THE    GUARDING    LOVE 85 

THE   CRISIS   HOUR 87 

THE  HEART  UNIVERSAL 89 

IF  THIS  BE  LIFE  AND  DEATH     .     . 

PRESENTATION   ODE      .      .     .     ,     . 

AFTER  THE  THORNS 


_•' 90 

92 

99 

IN  A  DESERT   PLACE IOO 

THE  LAST  LULLABY     .      ...     .     .X IOI 

WHEN   YOU   ARE   GONE     .     , .     .  IO2 

TRANSIENCE IO4 

THE    CONQUEROR      . IOS 

RELINQUISHMENT    .       .     .'   , IO7 

ANDREW  F.  BRANDO IO8 

THE   MAIDEN IIO 

THE    JAIL-BREAKER II2 

AS   WOMAN   LOVETH II3 

THE    COMRADE IIS 

FRANCES II7 

A   LOST   MESSAGE ,     .     .  I2i 

BY  LOVE   OF   HER I23 

THE  WEAVER  OF  THE  WOOD I2g 

THE    MARINER 


127 

129 

REVIEW I32 


AFTER  TOIL 


ASHES  AND  SPARKS 


ASHES  AND   SPARKS 

AT  THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  HILL- 
BROOK 

OING  to  me,  little  stream,  sing  to  me  long, 
^  The  soul  of  me  thirsts  for  thy  undulant 

song. 

Prone  in  thy  grasses  I  listening  lie, 
Pine  trees  and  verdant  leas,  bracken  and  sky 
Are  near  to  me,  dear  to  me,  but,  little  stream, 
Sing  me  away  to  the  sweet  Land  of  Dream. 


AT  SHRINE  OF  THE  HILL-BROOK 

The  fag  of  the  city  has  mantled  my  heart, 
My  weary  feet  bleed  from  the  thorns  of  the 

mart, 

The  spirit  within  me  is  ill  with  the  strife, 
But  thou  art  unweary,  O,  blithe  thing  of  life ! 
I  am  pleading,  and  needing  thy  lilt  and  thy 

gleam — 
Sing  to  me,  sing  to  me  now,  little  stream ! 


THE  LANE 

TOW  far  will  you  go  with  me,  my  love? 
To  the  stile,  or  the  bridge,  or  the  great 

oak-tree  ? 

The  lane  is  a  lonely  and  fearsome  place, 
And  there  's  no  one  journeying  there  but 
me." 

She  smiled  at  the  stile  with  a  sweet  disdain ; 
She  scoffed  at  the  bridge  and  the  great  oak- 
tree; 

And  looked  me  full  in  the  eyes  and  said, 
"I  will  go  to  the  end  of  the  lane  with  thee." 

5 


THE  LANE 

Then  I  loved  her  anew,  with  a  strange,  fierce 

love, 

As  high  as  the  stars  and  as  deep  as  the  sea : 
She  would  share  my  heaven  and  share  my 

hell! 
She  would  go  to  the  end  of  the  lane  with  me. 


6 


LURE  O'  DREAMS 

'\\  7HERE  do  you  keep  your  dreams,  my 

**        boy? 

Your  face  is  lit,  and  for  very  joy 
Your  feet  are  swift  in  the  vale  and  lea, — 
Tell  me,  pray,  where  your  dreams  may  be." 

"They   are   wonderful   dreams,"   he   made 

reply, 

"And  I  share  them  not  with  the  passer-by. 
Here  in  my  heart  I  have  hid  them  deep ; 
They  bless  my  waking  and  thread  my  sleep 
With  golden  strands — but  I  must  not  tell, — 

7 


LURE  O'  DREAMS 

They  are  wonderful  dreams  and  serve  me 
well!" 


"Where  are  your  dreams?"     His  face  was 
tense 

With  the  toil  of  years,  and  the  wage-man's 

pence 

Was  hung  where  the  weary  day  grew  dim; 
"Where  are  your  dreams?"  I  asked  of  him. 

He  raised  his  face  in  the  late  sun's  glare 
And  took  his  cap  from  the  graying  hair. 
"They  were  wonderful  dreams,"  he  made 

reply, 

"And  I  shared  them  not  with  the  passer-by. 
Here  in  my  heart  I  hid  them  deep 
As  men  hide  rubies,  but  oh,  the  steep 
Rough  Way  and  the  hunger  keen, 

8 


LURE  O'  DREAMS 

And  the  dry  brook-bed  where  the  willows 

lean 
Their  dead  trunks  vainly!" 

He  drove  his  spade 

Deep  where  the  line  of  the  trench  was  laid, 
And  from  the  swamp,  across  the  hill, 
Came  the  sad  far  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will. 


MY  BODY  AND  I 

T  GOT  this  body  in  the  Fleshing  Shop 

When  it  was  small  and  pudgy-like  and 

red; 

No  teeth  it  had  nor  could  it  stand  erect, — 
A  fuzzy  down  grew  sparse  upon  its  head. 

At   sight   of   it   the   neighbors   stood   and 

laughed, 

And  tickled  it  and  jogged  it  up  and  down; 
Then  some  one  put  it  in  a  little  cart 

And  wheeled  it  gaily  through  the  gaping 
town. 

10 


MY  BODY  AND  I 

When  it  grew  bigger  and  could  walk  and 
run, 

I  wet  it  in  the  pond  above  the  mill, 
Or  took  it  to  a  building  called  a  "school," 

And  there  I  had  to  keep  it  very  still. 

And  later,  when  its  muscles  stronger  grew, 
I  made  it  sow  and  reap  to  get  its  grain, 

And  tanned  it  in  the  summer's  fiercest  suns, 
And  toughened  it  with  wind  and  cold  and 
rain. 

It  served  to  keep  me  near  my  friend,  the 

Earth, 

It  helped  me  well  to  get  from  place  to  place, 
And  then,  perhaps,  a  tiny  bit  of  me 

Has   sometimes  worked  out  through  its 
hands  and  face! 
ii 


MY  BODY  AND  I 

How  long  I  Ve  had  it !  longer  than  it  seems 
Since  first  they  wrapped  it  in  a  linen  clout, 

And  now  't  is  shrivelled,  patched  and  break 
ing  down — 
I  guess,  forsooth,  that  I  have  worn  it  out ! 

And  If     O,  bless  you !     I  am  ever  young. 

A  soul  ne'er  ages,  is  nor  bent  nor  gray, 
And  when  the  body  breaks  and  crumbles 
down — 

The  Fleshing  Shop  is  just  across  the  way ! 


12 


HER  ROSARY 

\  CHAIN  of  gold,  pearl-strung;  a  sym- 

boled  cross; 

The  imaged  form  of  Him  who  hung  thereon 
For  love,  in  whose  great  name  thy  prayer 
Ascends  for  me,  my  sweet,  when  I  am  gone ! 

O  vigils  of  thy  heart !     O  sacred  pearls, 
Worn  by  thy  fingers  as  thou  pleadst  my  weal ! 
The  only  answering  meed  I  have  for  thee 
Is  mine  own  soul,  sealed  with  love's  scarlet 
seal! 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  AEROPLANES 

5 TV  TEATH  arching  skies  benignly  blue, 

•^  ^    Where  zigzag  fences  skirt  the  lanes, 
One  August  day  I  lolled  aglee 
And  watched  the  myriad  aeroplanes. 

I  saw  them  fuel  in  the  grass 

And  preen  them  ere  began  their  flight; 

I  heard  the  little  engines  whir, 

And  then — ah,  't  was  a  pretty  sight ! 

From  stalk  of  timothy  they  sped 
To  light  upon  the  jimson-weed, 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  AEROPLANES 

Or  circled  in  the  drowsy  air 

Above  the  wheat-field's  waving  meed. 


And  some  were  green  and  some  were  brown, 

And  some  a  soft  and  elfish  gray 

As  on  the  air-paths  undulant 

They  sailed  and  sailed  the  hours  away. 

Singly,  paired,  in  gauzy  flocks, 
They  rode  upon  the  summer  breeze 
'Mid  cheers  of  finch  and  chick-a-dee 
And  locust-fiddling  in  the  trees! 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN 

suns  of  summer  seared  his  skin; 
The  cold  his  blood  congealed ; 
The  forest  giants  blocked  his  way; 
The  stubborn  acres'  yield 
He  wrenched  from  them  by  dint  of  arm, 
And  grim  old  Solitude 
Broke  bread  with  him  and  shared  his  cot 
Within  the  cabin  rude. 
The  gray  rocks  gnarled  his  massive  hands; 
The  north  wind  shook  his  frame ; 
The  wolf  of  hunger  bit  him  oft; 
The  world  forgot  his  name; 

16 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN 

But  'mid  the  lurch  and  crash  of  trees, 
Within  the  clearing's  span 
Where  now  the  bursting  wheat-heads  dip, 
The  Fates  turned  out — a  man! 


IN  THE  NEW  COUNTRY 

(A  CAMEO) 

T  WANT  Lucille.     I  Ve  grubbed  on  this 
•^       old  Section  now  for  months 
And  lashed  the  stubborn  acres  with  my  steel, 
But  now  my  heart,  all  human-like,  cries  out 

— I  want  Lucille. 
The  cabin  is  quite  finished — every  crevice 

mortared — and  the  roof 
Is  fit  for  any  rain.     The  stove  is  set 
And  all  the  dishes  patient  on  their  shelves; 
The  bed  with  its  checked  coverlet  is  there 
In  its  own  corner,  and  the  chair 

18 


IN  THE  NEW  COUNTRY 

I  made   for  her   is   rocking  empty  in   the 

breeze ; 
The  nails  on  which  to  hang  her  things  are 

driven 
And  the  mirror  placed  at  her  own  height,  a 

little  less  than  mine. 
Out  in  the  shed  the  Alderney  is  tied  and 

Bess,  her  mare, 
Is  coated  for  the  Fall.     The  saddle  on  its 

rack 

Is  waiting,  as  am  I,  just  for  Lucille. 
It 's  strange,  is  n't  it,  how  strong  a  man  can 

be 

And  yet  how  lonesome  he  can  feel  ? 
But  I  don't  care — I  want  Lucille ! 


THE  CHATTEL 

\  MAN  on  the  block  in  the  city's  Square, 
Thronged  with  bidders  from  far  and 

near! 

I  can  see  his  face  in  the  red  sun's  glare 
Pale  at  the  cry  of  the  Auctioneer. 
"How  much  am  I  offered — a  dollar?     Ten? 
Oh,  come  now !  give  me  a  decent  bid ! 
For  men  in  the  market  are  always  men, 
And  in  this  one  there  's  a  fortune  hid. 
Why,  look  at  his  eyes,  now  the  shift  and  fall ! 
And  look  at  his  hands  with  their  nervous 

clutch ! 

And  the  scheming  brain  of  him — look  ye  all ! 
20 


THE  CHATTEL 

What? — scruple  ? — say! — well,     not     over- 

much! 
Ten      thousand?       Twenty?       (I     almost 

laughed!) 

Come!     Here  is  a  very  exceptional  man — 
He  ''11  plug  your  game  and  he  '11  work  your 

graft, 

And  push  to  the  finish  your  rottenest  plan. 
Twenty-fa/£    thousand — once ! — twice ! — are 

you  done? 
The  man  's  in  his  prime — 't  would  be  cheap 

were  he  old; 

He  's  a  long  way  ahead  of  the  regular  run — 
And    I  'm    bid   twenty-/^ — fair    warning ! 

SOLD!" 


21 


THE  DISADVANTAGES  OF  CHAZY 

(ADIRONDACKS) 

fT^HERE  is  no  market  here.     On  certain 

days 

One  rides  along  the  unfrequented  ways, 
Beckons  the  farmer  from  his  mellow  field 
And  buys  first-handed  what  his  acres  yield. 

There  are  no  steamboats  here.     His  arm  is 

brown 

Who  spurns  the  varied  engines  of  the  town, 
And  to  the  measured  rhythm  of  the  oar 
Bounds  in  his  skiff  along  the  verdant  shore. 
22 


THE  DISADVANTAGES  OF  CHAZY 

There  are  no  pavements  here.     The  forest 

loam 

Signals  our  feet  and  far  we  blithely  roam 
Where  strange,  sweet  odors  soothe  our  little 

ills, 
And  valleys  guide  the  courses  of  the  rills. 

There  is  no  college  here.     But  well  endowed 
Is  every  growing  thing  and  every  cloud, 
And  He  who  knoweth  all  imparts  His  mind 
Unsparingly  to  docile  hearts  and  kind. 

There    are   no   churches   here.     The    only 

spires 

Are  those  upon  the  pine-trees,  but  the  fires 
Of  true  oblation  burn  their  brightest  when 
Prayer  is  exultant  with  no  last  amen. 


w  ,„, 


HER  NEED  SUPREME 
HAT  do  I  want  most  of  all,  most  of 


O,  man  of  my  heart,  with  the  world  within 

call? 
You  are  generous,  quite,  with  your  gems  and 

your  gold, 
You  keep  me  from  starving  and  keep  me 

from  cold, 
But  a  woman  's  a  rose  on  its  bush  by  the 

wall, 
And — I  want  you  to  want  me,  dear, — that 

most  of  all ! 


24 


A  WAYSIDE  REVERIE 


^T^HE  past?     Well,  what  of  the  past,  I 

•*•         say! 

Poor  outworn  thing;  can  I  mend  it,  pray? 
Do  tears  avail  for  the  misspent  days  ? 
Will  pining  straighten  the  crooked  ways? 
Must  yesterday's  heartbreak  last  for  ay, 
And  yesterday's  mist  hide  the  sun  to-day? 
Nay,  life  is  life,  and  the  farer's  toll 
Is  a  hopeful  heart  as  the  hours  unroll. 
The  path  ascends  ;  each  winding  rood 
Blooms  at  the  touch  of  a  blithesome  mood. 
I  will  hold  that  the  best  is  a  bit  beyond 
25 


A  WAYSIDE  REVERIE 

And  drink  a  toast  from  the  lily's  f rond- 
A  toast  in  dew  to  the  day  that 's  done, 
And  one  to  the  better  day  begun. 


26 


THE  SCULPTOR 

A  ^"ARBLE  is  docile  to  me, 
•*•*-*•       Like  a  world,  all  nebular, 
Awaiting  its  designer 

And  valueless  until  I  give  it  life. 
No  form  it  has,  nor  soul, 

Nor  spell  of  beauty; 
No  angel  shows, 

Nor  hint  of  human  grace. 
'T  is  stone — not  more — mere  stone, 

And  fit  for  but  a  peasant's  spit 
Or  kick  of  his  thick  boot. 

And  then — I  dream! 
27 


THE  SCULPTOR 

(Ah,  God,  I  dream!) 

And  toil, 
(Ah,  God,  I  toil!) 

And  something  comes  of  it, 
A  something  white  and  gleaming 

In  the  City's  Square. 
"Look  there!"  they  cry, 

"A  General!"     "A  Pope!" 
"A  Statesman!"  or  "A  Poet!" 

"Wonderful!" 
But  on  my  bench  beneath  the  tree 

I  sit  and  smile — 
The  fools !     And  blind  at  that ! 

/  am  the  statue,  whatsoe'er  its  form. 
My  soul  and  sweat  are  there, 

And  all  my  awful  years. 
Myself  is  in  the  stone ! 


28 


THE  CYNIC'S  AD.VICE 

f"T"VHERE  is  only  one  task,  little  man,  little 

man, 
In    this    wonderful,    wonderful    Island    of 

Trade ; 
'Tis  to  capture  the  dollars  wherever  you 

can — 

Nor  matters  the  motive,  nor  matters  the  plan 
So  long  as  you  do  it, — thus  winners  are 

made. 

So  heat  your  heart,  lad,  in  the  hot  money- 
fire, 

And  harden  it  well  in  the  cold  tank  of  greed ; 
29 


THE  CYNIC'S  ADVICE 

On  gold  and  dominion  set  fast  your  desire 
And  never  to  justice  and  kindness  aspire, 
But  trample  your  brothers  and  laugh  when 
they  bleed. 

For  "business  is  business," — remember  that 

well, 
'Tis  a  fine,  sturdy  maxim  time-honored  and 

true, 
(I  doubt,  as  some  say,  that  'twas  authored 

in  hell) 
Adopt  it  and  Bradstreet  your  triumph  will 

tell, 
And  you  will  get — all  that  is  coming  to  you ! 


ADIRONDACKS 

OOUND,  sweet  sleep  on  a  balsam  bed, 
^       A  dip  in  the  lake  at  morn, 
A  climb  to  the  crest  of  Eagle's  Nest, 

The  ring  of  the  breakfast  horn; 
A  laugh  at  the  quip  of  my  comrades  brown, 

A  reach  for  the  reel  and  rod, 
A  swinging  pace  for  the  streams  that  race 

Down  the  hills  of  the  Land  of  God; 
The  swish  of  the  ferns  in  the  brackened  trail, 

The  give  of  the  loam  'neath  my  feet, 
The  squirrel's  chirr,  the  woodcock's  whir, 

The  call  of  the  veery  sweet; 


ADIRONDACKS 

A  still  approach  to  the  waiting  pool, 

A  cast,  a  flash,  a  thrill, 
And  a  shortened  line  where  the  roots 
entwine 

To  test  the  fisher's  skill; 
A  varied  wade  through  a  rocky  maze, 

By  noon  a  weight  in  the  creel ; 
A  venison  snack,  a  drowse,  and  back 

With  a  heart  of  hope  and  weal. 
This  may  list  low  to  the  men  who  know 

The  tricks  of  the  Street's  mad  strife, 
But  if  I  may,  just  let  me  say — 

By  George,  I  call  it  life ! 


THE  PILGRIM 

T  AM  my  ancient  self. 
•*•       Long  paths  I  've  trod, 
The  luring  light  before, 

Behind,  the  rod; 
And  in  the  beam  and  blow 

The  misty  God. 

I  am  my  ancient  self. 

My  flesh  is  young, 
But  old,  mysterious  words 

Engage  my  tongue, 
And  weird,  lost  songs 

Old  bards  have  sung. 
33 


THE  PILGRIM 

I  have  not  fared  alone. 

In  mount  and  dell 
The  one  I  fain  would  be 

Stands  by  me  well, 
And  bids  my  man's  heart  list 

To  the  far  bell. 

Give  me  nor  ease  nor  goal — 

Only  the  Way, 
A  bit  of  bread  and  sleep 

Where  the  white  waters  play, 
The  pines,  the  patient  stars, 

And  the  new  day. 


34 


THE  NAKED  DAY 

HP^HE  day  itself  was  glorious  enough, 

•*•     Needing  no  drape  of  travel  or  of  talk, 
And  so  I  lay  at  reverent  ease 
Beside  the  shadowed  walk, 
And  drank  deep  of  the  beauty  of  the  day 
And  put  my  sighs  and  little  sins  away. 


35 


THE  SOUL'S  SONG  OF 
INDEPENDENCE 

T)UT  out  the  stars! 

My  essence  is  light ; 
I  laugh  at  the  haste 
Of  the  darkness  in  flight. 

Dry  up  the  streams ! 

I  am  fertile  and,  lo, 

My  springs  are  within  me 

To  ward  the  drought's  blow. 


SOUL'S  SONG  OF  INDEPENDENCE 

Burn  all  the  books ! 
They  are  fragments  of  Him 
Who  is  with  me  and  of  me, 
My  sinew  and  limb. 

Unmast  the  flags ! 
My  banner  I  '11  be, 
Hued  with  the  dye-stuffs 
Of  Infinity. 

Scuttle  the  ships! 
On  the  paths  of  the  sea 
I  will  fleet  to  the  Islands 
Of  far  Arcady. 

Banish  the  market! 
My  barter  in  dreams 
I  carry  on  shrewdly 
Where  no  arc-light  gleams. 
37 


SOUL'S  SONG  OF  INDEPENDENCE 

Level  the  towns ! 
I  'm  a  child  of  the  plain 
And  merrily  houseless 
I  journey  amain. 

Melt  down  the  gold 
Till  it  seethes  in  the  pot ! 
I  am  my  riches, 
Of  Croesus  begot. 

Woo  my  friends  from  me ! 
I  am  my  best  friend 
In  a  compact  of  comradeship, 
Never  to  end. 

Bury  the  flesh! 
I  am  I  and  for  ay 
Will  bide  through  the  eons 
And  hail  the  young  day ! 
38 


THE  PLOWMAN 

GEE  up   there,   Brain!     Gee  up  there, 
Hand! 

I  am  a  tiller  of  the  land. 
Ye  are  my  oxen  docile,  strong, 
To  make  the  furrow  straight  and  long. 
I  '11  feed  ye,  rest  ye,  tend  ye  well, 
And  stall  ye  at  the  evening  bell. 
But  now  't  is  morn ;  the  uplands  lie 
To  take  their  pulsing  pregnancy. 
The  plow  is  set;  its  sheening  steel 
Is  eager  for  the  harvest's  weal. 
So  haw  there,  Brain !  and  haw  there,  Hand ! 
I  am  a  tiller  of  the  land! 
39 


(A   RHAPSODY   OF   DEFIANCE) 

OTAND  back,  ye  irking  devils  of  despair! 

Behold,  my  head  is  bare 
To  the  balmed  breeze  from  off  the  sapphire 

sea 

And  lifted  to  the  sun.     For  unto  me 
The  Voices  call,  call  resonant  and  clear, — 
"Live,  man!  live  strong!    Another  June  is 

here!" 

June!    Look — a  belted  bee  is  in  the  rose, 
And  soon  will  stagger  in  his  flight  to  close 
40 


MOOD  O'  JUNE 

The  comb  with  weight  of  gathered  sweet. 

And,  see — 

A  red-wing 's  on  the  flag  and  swinging  free ! 
I  catch  the  flash  of  crimson  mid  the  jet, 
As  there  he  balances  above  the  wet, 
Lush  grass  beside  the  pasture-pond,  where 

slow, 

Brown  cattle  at  the  evening  go. 
Now,  too,  the  brook  its  cheery  gossip  spills 
Into  the  pools  among  the  shaded  hills, 
Or  widens  in  the  meadow  to  caress 
The  crisp  tanged  leaves  of  the  o'er-bending 

cress, 

While  in  the  riffles  finning  trout  await 
With  upstream  heads  the  fall  of  fly  or  bait. 
Up  from  their  Earth  the  floral  children  rise 
And  blow  their  kisses  to  the  wooing  skies 
In  gleeful  troth,  and  deck  themselves  anew 
With  filmy  fabrics  spangled  o'er  with  dew. 


MOOD  O'  JUNE 

The  useful  grass  along  the  fertile  plain 
Stirs  in  the  heat  and  becks  the  friendly  rain, 
And  high  the  lark  his  silver  lyre  tunes 
To  sift  on  all  below  its  mystic  runes. 

Bird-song  and  bloom  and  reach  of  trellised 

vine! 

The  Voices  call,  and  all  the  earth  is  mine, 
And  for  my  feet  the  clovered  paths  that  go 
Where  poise  and  peace  abide ! 

And  so — 

Stand  back,  ye  irking  devils  of  despair! 
A  glass  of  June-wine  in  the  odored  air 
I  lift  to  Nature — to  her  hills  and  trees, 
To  wave  and  shallop  by  the  bouldered  leas, 
To  star  and  sun,  to  night  and  dewy  dawn, 
To  days  to  be,  to  plaints  and  sorrows  gone, 
To  life,  to  love,  to  Woman  and  to  Man, 
And  to  the  utter  goodness  of  the  Plan ! 
42 


THE  WHITE  OLD  LADY 


rr^HE   white   old   lady   who   lived   next 
•*•        door, 
Whose  face  was  weazened  with  years  and 

care, 
Forgot  for  the  moment  her  life's  long  stress, 

Whenever  Evangeline  went  there, 
And    curtsied    and    chirruped    and    acted 

young  — 
Oh,  the  tales  she  told  and  the  songs  she  sung  ! 

Evangeline  was  a  little  child, 
And  the  white  old  lady  was  long  past  that  : 
43 


THE  WHITE  OLD  LADY 

She  had  buried  her  kinsfolk  one  by  one, 
And  lived  alone  with  her  dog  and  cat. 
And  she  stirred  her  gruel  and  baked  her 

tarts, 
And  harked  for  the  sound  of  the  tradesmen's 

carts. 

Evangeline  was  a  little  child — 
A  little  child,  as  I  said  before — 

And  the  white  old  lady  knew  well  her  knock, 
For  it  often  rang  on  the  entry  door : 

And,  stopping  to  right  things  and  primp  a  bit, 

The  white  old  lady  would  answer  it. 

For  sweetness  the  pinks  in  the  garden  there 
Were  not  to  be  named  with  Evangeline, 
As  she  'd  wait  with  her  biggest  and  blondest 
doll 

44 


THE  WHITE  OLD  LADY 

While  the  white  old  lady  unlatched  the 

screen. 

I  never  was  asked  to  the  party  small, 
But  I  Ve  sat  at  my  window  and  guessed  it  all. 

When  the  white  old  lady  was  old  no  more, 
And  had  opened  her  eyes  to  the  lasting 

dawn, 

And  the  choir  sang  in  the  stuffy  room, 
And  the  neighbors  trod  on  the  shaded 

lawn, 

The  one  real  mourner  was  scarcely  four — 
She  had  oftenest  knocked  at  the  entry  door. 


45 


THE  SERVANTS 

QINGER,  sing!     The  hoary  world 

Needs  reminder  of  its  youth: 
Prophet,  tell!     The  darkness  lies 
On  the  labyrinths  of  truth: 
Builder,  build!     Let  rocks  uprise 
Into  cities  'neath  thy  hand: 
Farmer,  till !     The  sun  and  rain 
Harken  for  the  seed's  demand: 
Artist,  paint !     Thy  canvases 
Patiently  convey  thy  soul: 
Writer,  write !    With  pen  blood-dipped 
Trace  no  segment,  but  the  whole : 
Teacher,  teach!    Thyself  the  creed — 
46 


THE  SERVANTS 

Only  this  a  child  may  know : 
Dreamer,  dream!     Nor  hide  thy  face 
Though  thy  castles  crumble  low. 
Where  the  toiler  turns  the  sod 
Man  beholds  the  living  God. 


47 


MARGUERITE 

T  WILL  not  forsake  thee,  sweet  Maiden 

of  Woe— 
Thy  lips  like  the  cherry,  thy  breasts  like 

the  snow. 

The  winds  may  be  cruel  to  thy  raven  hair 
But  I  '11  hold  thee,  enfold  thee,  and  soothe 
thy  despair. 

Thine  eyes  tell  the  story  of  love  that  went 

wrong, 

And  stilled  is  thy  laughter  and  sobered  thy 
song, 

48 


MARGUERITE 

But  a  path  I  will  point  to  the  Gardens  of 

Rest, 

Where  no  rod  is,  where  God  is,  O,  Maiden 
oppressed ! 

And   the   man?    Ah,   the  man!    Let  him 

shift  as  he  may, 
And  bleed  from  the  thorns  that  encompass 

his  way, 
For  justice  ne'er  sleeps  and  the  man  and  his 

kin 

Shall  sink  o'er  the  brink  of  the  Chasm  of 
Sin. 


49 


TRANSIENT  SYMBOLS 

(A  CHRISTMAS  POEM) 

T  N  snowy  vales  the  evergreen  we  seek, 
And  find  it  growing  strong,  with  never 

reek 

Of  passion  or  of  greed  or  vaunting  pride; 
The  ax  descends  upon  its  quivering  side; 
With  glee  the  corse  is  shouldered  to  the  feast, 
But  while  succeeding  suns  flame  in  the  East 
The  Tree  of  Life  lives  on. 

Upon  the  patient  boughs  the  candles  flare 
And  shining  trinkets  are  suspended  there — 
A  top  for  Tom,  a  waxen  doll  for  Sue — 


TRANSIENT  SYMBOLS 

The  jocund  hour  is  as  a  dream  come  true; 
But  though  the  dream  has  vanished  ere  the 

morn, 

The  candles  die,  the  trinkets  are  outworn, 
The  Gift  of  gifts  ne'er  dims. 

Though  it  be  wrought  in  love — the  Christ 
mas  cheer — 

Our  hearts  are  changeful  as  the  changeful 
year, 

Having  their  heat  and  chill, — bud,  bloom, 
decay. 

Where  are  the  friends  and  loves  of  yester 
day? 

Gone  like  the  whisp'rings  of  the  restless  sea ! 

But  for  the  world's  toil-struck  humanity 
The  love  of  Christ  abides. 


THE  TINDERBOX 

fnr^HE   structure    stood,    and   Hope   and 
Dream — the   timbers — crossed   and 
crossed; 
Then  Fate  came  by  and  carelessly  a  flaming 

splinter  tossed, 

And  merrily  the  sparks  leaped  high!     Who 
heard  the  weary  builder's  sigh? 


SEVENTY-ODD 

'T^HEY  say  I  'm  old, — perhaps  I  am, 

But  not  too  old  to  dream  and  laugh, 
And  I  Ve  a  pipe  and  a  collie  dog, 
Some  memories  and  an  oaken  staff. 

They  say  the  best  of  my  span  has  gone. 

That  I  deny,  for  today  I  know 
The  deep,  true  things  of  life  and  love 

That  were  hid  from  me  in  the  long  ago. 

I  would  not  be  a  boy  again, 

With  a  boy's  unrest  and  a  boy's  desire; 
The  long  content  of  a  later  youth 

Is  best — and  the  glow  of  a  later  fire. 
53 


SEVENTY-ODD 

I  sit  and  rock  with  my  hands  at  rest ; 

The  sun  is  falling  behind  the  hill; 
And  a  reasoned  faith  in  the  things  to  be — 

The  better  things — is  with  me  still. 

My  house  is  small  and  my  fare  is  plain; 

My  books  are  few  and  my  eyes  are  dim; 
But  the  stars  are  hung  in  their  wonted  place, 

And  the  world  is  good  to  the  very  rim ! 


54 


THE  MENTOR 

TT  7ITHIN  my  being,  scarce  perceived  as 

*  *         yet, 

Stands  fair  a  statue  infinitely  wrought, 
And  though  too  oft  I  grovel  in  the  gloom 
Its  flawless  lines  cast  over  me  their  spell, 
Shaming  my  spirit  into  hate  of  sin, 
Luring  my  feet  to  altitudes  unguessed. 
And  when  at  that  most  good  and  longed-for 

day 

The  veil  falls  limp  about  the  crystal  base, 
With  leaping  heart  and  vision  clarified 
I  shall  stand  face  to  face  with  my  true  self. 

55 


THE  GREAT  MAN 

'T^HEY  said  that  his  lips  were  white-hot 
With  the  touch  of  a  coal  from  some 

fire  divine; 

They  said  that  his  will  was  of  iron — he  stood 
For  the  Cause  and  hewed  straight  to  the 

line; 
They  said  that  his  courage  was  born  of  the 

God 

That  was  in  him,  directing  his  might; 
They  said  that  his  torch  was  a  heavenly 

flame 

To  guide  a  vast  people  aright. 
56 


THE  GREAT  MAN 

But,  in  his  own  heart,  he  was  conscious  each 

hour 
That  the  faith  of  a  woman  was  suckling  his 

pow'r. 


57 


SING  ON,  O  HEART! 

HEART,   sing  on!     The   drought   is 

long, 

The  birds  are  panting — stilled  their  song; 
The  typhoon  marshals  in  the  plain, 
The  air  is  hot,  no  sign  of  rain, 
But  still,  O  Heart,  sing  on! 

0  Heart,  sing  on !     Somewhere  bides  She 
Who  lives  and  hopes  and  waits  for  thee. 

1  know  not  when  nor  where  thy  quest 
Shall  end,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  rest, 
But  still,  O  Heart,  sing  on! 

58 


SING  ON,  O  HEART! 

Sing  on,  O  Heart !     The  summit  far 
Is  topped  by  light  of  yonder  star ; 
The  climb  is  sheer,  nor  paved  with  ease, 
The  wind  is  mournful  in  the  trees, 
But  still,  O  Heart,  sing  on! 

Sing  on,  O  Heart !    That  thou  canst  sing 
Holds  sure  the  promise  of  the  spring, 
And  love's  fruition  full  and  long, 
And  thine  own  height  above  the  throng, — 
And  so,  O  Heart,  sing  on ! 


59 


THE  DISTINCTION  OF  DIFFERENCE 

T  DO  not  want  to  be  a  cog  in  the  whirling 
wheel  of  a  great  machine, 

Nor  merely  a  drop  in  the  turbulent  stream 
that  flows  where  the  elms  and  the  wil 
lows  lean; 

Nor  a  chair  like  the  other  chairs  set  in  a  row 
with  their  backs  all  shaped  to  a  common 
line, — 

Conform !  Conform !  is  the  cry  I  hear  but  I 
never  will  bow  to  a  will  not  mine. 

I  do  not  choose  to  be  the  thing  the  whiplash 
hits  in  its  swift  decent ; 
60 


THE  DISTINCTION  OF  DIFFERENCE 

A  slave  is  a  slave  though  the  field  be  fair  and 

manhood  dies  when  the  soul  is  bent. 
Aye,  serving  is  good  but  I  serve  as  a  king 

with  glance  shot  straight  at  the  earthly 

Plan, 
For  the  life-blood  leaps  in  my  veins  today 

and  I  '11  be,  by  the  gods'  good  grace — a 

man. 


61 


THE  EXPOSITION 

OHE  and  I  went  to  it — the  Big  Fair. 
We  were  the  whole  Attendance. 

It  was  all  under  one  roof,  which  was  called 
the  Sky. 

Every    day   this   was    rehued   by    invisible 
brushes,  gloriously, 

And  at  night  all  lit  by  countless  lights,  star- 
shaped, 

And  arranged  curiously  in  the  form  of  Dip 
pers  and  things. 

It  must  have  cost  a  fortune  in  some  kind  of 
rare  coin 

To  do  it  that  way. 

62 


THE  EXPOSITION 

By  day  the  place  was  vast  and  very  beautiful. 

The  far  edge  of  it,  all  around,  was  called  the 
Horizon. 

Each  morning,  out  of  the  East, 

A  huge  golden  disk  came 

And  swung  itself  slowly  up  along  the  arch 
of  the  sky-roof 

And  settled  to  the  Westward,  leaving  numer 
ous  glories  behind. 

There  was  a  water-place  there,  a  Lake,  with 
an  Inlet  and  an  Outlet. 

It  was  not  little  and  brown  like  those  you  see 
at  the  Sportsman's  Show, 

But  big  and  blue  and  clean. 

We  splashed  ourselves  in  it  and  laughed,  like 
children. 

The  Lake  had  trout  in  it ; 

I  saw  them  leap  when  the  water  was  still 

And  the  golden  disk  was  falling. 
63 


THE  EXPOSITION 

I  looked  around  for  a  "Don't"  sign, 

But  there  was  none; 

So  I  took  a  hook  and  caught  some, 

And  She  cooked  them,  for  I  had  built  a  fire. 

(You  see,  one  could  do  almost  anything 

there  that  one  liked; 
There  were  no  Rules.) 
And  there  was  a  Spring,  which  kept  filling 

itself  and  filling  itself  from  somewhere, 
And  spilling  itself  over  its  brim  into  the  Lake, 
As  if  it  were  not  a  bit  afraid  there  would  n't 

be  any  more. 

The  Spring  was  clear  and  cold, 
And  we  knelt  by  it  and  saw  ourselves  in  it, 
And  sucked  its  water  through  our  lips. 
There   were   also   real   trees,   beeches    and 

birches, 

And  sometimes  a  real  wind  swayed  them, 
And  their  leaves  made  a  sound 

64 


THE  EXPOSITION 

Like  the  song  of  soft  voices  blended. 
Pines  there  were,  too,  and  balsams 
But  they  were  very  still  and  dignified, 
And  never  bent  much,  even  when  the  wind 

was  in  them. 

(We  rented  our  cot  from  the  balsams — 
The  one  we  slept  on  the  nights  we  were  there. 
And,  oh,  such  a  sleep!) 
And  hills !     You  should  have  seen  them ! 
Each  was  different  from  the  others, 
An  individual,  but  together  they  made  a 

Range, 

With  a  wavy  top-line  against  the  sky-roof. 
And  we  climbed  the  hills  and  lost  our  breath, 
And  on  their  crests  stood  long, 
And  looked  out  over  wooded  valleys 
Threaded  by  satin  streams. 
It  was  better  for  our  eyes  than  an  oculist's 

shop. 

65 


THE  EXPOSITION 

Then,  up  there,  we  would  sit  down  on  the 

moss-cushions,  She  and  I, 
And  hum  some  old  tunes,  some  very  old 

tunes, 

And  be  quietly  happy — 
A  sort  of  happiness  that  did  n't  seem  to  need 

anything 
Outside  of  itself. 

We  did  n't  see  the  Manager  at  all, 
But  there  must  have  been  one  around  there 

somewhere 

To  arrange  all  this  and  look  after  it. 
And  we  did  n't  pay  anything  to  get  in ; 
Our  hearts  invited  us. 


66 


THE  FRIEND 

rTT^AKE  the  lid  from  off  your  heart  and  let 
**"         me  see  within ; 

Curious,  I,  and  impudent,  a  rugged  man  of 
sin. 

And  yet  I  hold  you  truer  than  would  presi 
dent  or  priest; 

I  put  my  bowl  against  your  lip  and  seat  you 
at  my  feast; 

I  probe  your  wound  and  chafe  your  limbs 
and  get  my  gods  to  see 

That  you  are  strengthened  as  we  fare  the 
forest  and  the  lea. 
67 


THE  FRIEND 

Strike  hands  with  me — the  glasses  brim — 

the  sun  is  on  the  heather, 
And  love  is  good  and  life  is  long  and  two 

are  best  together. 


68 


THE  GAUNTLET  FLUNG  TO  DEATH 

XT  THERE  cedars  lift  and  grasses  sway 
It  waits — my  grave — and  I   scarce 

gray. 

Well,  let  it  feed  upon  my  form 
While  I,  alive  and  strong  and  warm, 
Go  blithely  on  my  way. 

Ah,  surely  for  no  grave  was  I 
Intended,  but  for  lea  and  sky 
And  stretch  of  wood  and  lily-flame. 
Mayhap  this  hulking  mortal  frame 
Will  crumble,  but  not  I ! 

69 


LINCOLN 

1809-1865 

A  ND  he  was  once  a  babe,  little  and  like 
*  any  other, 

Wan,  slow-eyed,  knowing  not  his  mother, 

knowing  only  her  breasts, 
Sleeping  in  the  day,  showing  no  hint  of 

stature  or  of  pow'r ! 
What  recked  he  that  the  walls  about  were 

less  than  palace  walls, 
Or  that  the  snow,  sifting  upon  him  through 

the  log-crevices, 

Was  not  the  dust  of  warm  and  gentle  stars  ? 

70 


LINCOLN 

Rude-handed  they  who  tended  him — rough 

miners  with  a  Kohinoor — 
And  yet  were  they  the  tools  of  God  to  help 

that  babe  to  be ! 

Then  sun  succeeded  sun,  and  to  the  wid'ning 

eyes  of  Youth 

Far  heights  on  heights  stood  clear, 
Topped  by  a  nameless  glory  to  be  won 
By  life  and  love  and  tireless  trust  in  Right, 
And  patient  toil  and  fearless  grapple  with 

the  Wrong. 

'T  was  but  the  vision  of  a  dreamful  boy, 
But  in  it  surely  lay  the  unity  of  States, 
The  lengthened  gleam  of  all  the  Flag's  fair 

stars, 
And  justice  done  to  men — some  white,  some 

black, 


LINCOLN 

The  owners  and  the  owned, 

But  bondaged  all  until  the  great  Decree ! 

And  O,  the  soul  of  him 

So  stalwartly  enbarred  within  its  clay, 

Yet  roaming  far,  halting  not  upon  the  shores 

of  his  America, 

Crossing  seas  and  deserts  to  set  up  its  claim 
Of  universal  kinship! 

We  say  we  are  his  people, — proudly  we  say 

it  and  with  reverence, — 
But  in  his  heart  he  kept  all  men  and  fathered 

them  with  tenderness. 

Almost  it  seemed  as  if  from  out  his  loins — 
This    great    parental   man — the    race    had 

sprung ! 


72 


LINCOLN 

He  knew  no  couch  of  down,  no  viands  rare, 

no  easy  leveled  way. 
Lonely  he  fought  his  fight  and  gained  the 

meed  of  Wisdom, 

The  insignia  of  Poise,  and  Love's  gemmed 
chaplet,  fadeless  through  the  years. 

We  say  that  he  was  born,  and  date  his  death, 

But  while  the  light  seeks  out  the  vales,  and 
darkness  holds  them  close, 

This  man  shall  be ! 


73 


THE  INDIVIDUAL 

WILL  obey  my  light 
•*•       Though  my  light  be  night ; 
This  is  the  only  right. 

I  will  declare  my  word 
Though  to  the  world  absurd; 
Thus  only  may  I  be  heard. 

I  will  live  out  my  dream 
Though  it  should  folly  seem, 
And  but  for  me  the  gleam. 


74 


THE  INDIVIDUAL 

I  will  pursue  my  way 
Though  no  illuming  ray 
Eases  the  toilsome  day. 

Others  may  scout  the  plan, 
Wise  men  my  nature  ban — 
I  will  be  my  own  man. 


75 


THE  MAN-CHILD 

THE  World's  great  Child,  born  and  re 
born,  is  Dream, 

Oft  parented  by  Penury  and  Pain ; 
Nor  drifts  he  ever  on  a  tranquil  stream. 
His  heritage  is  wind  and  cold  and  rain. 

No  sable  wears  he  when  the  blast  is  keen, 
No  couch  of  down  e'er  knows  his  weary 

frame ; 

Upon  no  shoulder  may  he  fainting  lean, 
His  breast  is  valleyed  by  the  scorch  of  flame. 


76 


THE  MAN-CHILD 

The  sordid  eye  ne'er  looks  upon  his  face 
Till  it  is  wrought  in  canvas  or  in  stone, 
But  ever  comes  he  to  the  souls  who  know 
And  claim  and  hold  him  for  their  very  own. 

Within  the  life  of  every  child  he  lies 
And  gently  stirs  the  curtain  of  the  soul 
Till,  peeping  forth,  the  youthful  eye  descries 
The  glinting  of  the  fair  and  distant  goal. 

He  is  the  great  Companion  of  the  few 
Whose  windows  open  toward  the  early  sun, 
Who  find  all  love  within  a  drop  of  dew 
And  worship  where  the  silver  hill-brooks  run. 

He  sees  the  iron  hidden  in  its  earth, 
Black  ballast  of  the  whirling,  circling  sphere, 
And,  shaping  it,  brings  cities  to  their  birth 
While  nations  pause  to  wonder  and  to  cheer. 
77 


THE  MAN-CHILD 

He  seeks  the  attic  where  the  genius  bends 
Above   his    task   with   wan   and   nerveless 

hands, 

And  spur  of  hope  and  tireless  patience  lends 
To  him  whose  thought  shall  blossom  through 

the  lands. 

O,  Dream,  live  on!  and  live  and  live  again! 

Scorned  and  derided  thou  art  Prince  su 
preme; 

Ruler  of  progress  in  the  world  of  men, 

Ever  thine  own  shall  love  and  hail  thee, 
Dream ! 


THE  PATH  TO  HEAVEN 


jrr^WAS  a  wee  little  path,  this  path  I 

would  sing. 
It  ran  thro'  the  meadow  and  skirted  the 

spring; 
In  and  out  'mongst  the  sumachs  and  on 

through  the  wood 
Where  the  tall,  green-domed  hemlocks  in 

majesty  stood. 

Across  it  a  squirrel  frisked  lissome  and  gray, 
And  a  chipmunk  perched  chattering  not 

far  away. 

'T  was  a  wee  little  path,  as  was  said  at  the 
start, 

79 


THE  PATH  TO  HEAVEN 

But  't  was  ample  to  lure  my  feet  and  my 

heart, 

For  it  led  to  a  tryst-spot,  the  old  poplar-tree, 
Where  Clarissa  was  patiently  waiting  for 

me. 


80 


To  Sir  Ernest  H.  Shackleton,  C.V.O.,  guest  of  the  Trans 
portation  Club,  New  York,  March  30,  1910. 

THE  QUEST 

^T^HE  test  of  man  is  ever  in  his  tasks; 
•*•     His  deeds — ah,  these  his  inmost  soul 

reveal, 

And  show  him  craven  or  of  courage  fine 
To  forfeit  ease  and  urge  the  human  weal. 
The  treasures  man  would  gain  are  hidden 

deep, 
Fast-locked  beneath  his  feet  the  old  earth 

lies; 

The  flowers  of  progress  bloom  in  dangered 
ways 

81 


THE  QUEST 

And  yield  their  fragrance  but  to  brave  em 
prise. 
And  some  there  be  who  hug  the  hearth,  or 

lean 

To  gentle  gain  within  the  place  of  trade; 
And  some  the  craft  of  statesmanship  essay 
In  governmental  halls  where  laws  are  made. 
The  docile  canvas  waits  the  artist's  soul, 
The  colors  on  the  palette  patient  lie 
To  meet  the  beck  of  him  who  would  portray 
The  varied  hues  of  landscape  and  of  sky. 
The  wan  inventor  bends  the  heated  steel, 
The  soldier  arms  for  battle  at  the  dawn, 
The  writer  limns  his  story  of  mankind, 
The  singer  sings  his  song  and  passes  on. 
Each  in  his  acre  holds  his  sheening  plow, 
Commanded  but  to  till  as  best  he  may, 
And  who  shall  say  that  these  have  lived  in 
vain 

82 


THE  QUEST 

Or  strewn  their  seed  along  a  barren  way  ? 
But  great  is  he  who  feels  the  lure  of  lands 
Uncharted,  where  no  human  foot  has  trod; 
Who  hears  afar  from  out  the  icy  vast, 
His  call — the  summons  of  an  onward  God. 
This  man,  this  son  of  reasoned  discontent — 
The  flame  of  conquering  within  his  breast — 
What  recks  he  of  the  city's  paven  lanes, 
Of  feasting,  or  of  cushioned  ease  and  rest? 
For  him  naught  but  the  long  and  rugged  way, 
The  memoried  kiss  of  her  who  could  not  go, 
The  ceaseless  stare  of  cold  antarctic  suns, 
The  fearful  marches  through  eternal  snow; 
The  tug  of  hunger  at  his  shrinking  frame, 
No  hearth-fire  lending  its  warm  meed  of 

cheer, 

Companioned  oft  by  solitude  and  pain 
Amid  the  vigils  of  the  awesome  year! 
But  once  again  has  man  his  fiber  shown, 
83 


THE  QUEST 

And  Aspiration's  banner  flung  afar; 
For  him  awaits  the  chaplet  of  the  brave, 
The  silent  Hail  of  every  gleaming  star. 
The  quest  unfinished, — ah,  't  is  ever  sweet ! 
The  goal  unreached,  the  best  of  life  ne'er 

done! 

And  on  the  scroll  of  couraged  men  and  great, 
Writ  clear  in  light,  the  name  of  Shackleton. 


84 


THE  GUARDING  LOVE 

TF  in  my  life's  long,  eager  quest 
•*•  I  faltered,  fell  and  missed  my  best; 
Or  bent  my  brow  to  take  a  bay 
Gained  in  some  base,  unhonored  way — 
What  would  She  say? 

If  when  in  weariness  her  soul 
Should  crave  me,  and  I  flung  a  dole — 
A  hasty  word,  a  careless  hour — 
And  gave  her  not  my  heart's  best  dow'r,- 
What  would  She  say? 


THE  GUARDING  LOVE 

If  to  my  path  another  came 
And  kissed  my  lips  and  breathed  my  name 
As  women  do  in  passion's  ruth, 
Wanting  a  man  but  not  his  truth — 
What  would  She  say? 

If  in  the  eons  yet  to  be 
'Mid  waning  stars  and  shrinking  sea, 
When  e'en  our  graves  are  quite  forgot, 
She  called  me  and  I  answered  not — 
What  would  She  say? 


86 


THE  CRISIS  HOUR 

A  MBUSHED  within  the  Swamp  of  Time 
^^      it  lay, 
And  toward  it,  fearing  naught,  I  made  my 

way. 
I  thought  that  life  was  peace  and  love  and 

joy- 
Thus  did  they  teach  me  when  I  was  a  boy. 
And  so  I  wandered  on,  unarmored,  weak, 
When    something — sharp    and   gleaming — 

smote  my  cheek, 

And  something  splashed  upon  my  pallid  arm 

And  frightened  me,  for  it  was  red  and  warm. 

87 


THE  CRISIS  HOUR 

The  pines  were  there  and  in  the  sky  a  star, 
But  in  that  hour  I  learned  that  life  is  war. 
There  have  been  other  hours,  and  other  scars 
Gained  'mid  the  placid  pines,  'neath  smiling 

stars, 

And  not  in  vain  if  late  some  voice  may  say, 
"Look  there!     A  soldier  goeth  on  his  way!" 


88 


THE  HEART  UNIVERSAL 

,  I  am  the  bee  in  the  clover-head 
And  the  breeze  in  the  leaning  birches, 
And  the  foam-capped  wave  of  the  lusty  sea 
Where  the  craft  of  the  seaman  lurches, 
And  the  lilt  of  the  song  in  the  maiden's 

throat, 

And  the  glint  of  a  wing  in  the  cover, 
For  the  gods  in  a  kindly  mood  decreed 
That  I  might  be — a  lover ! 


89 


IF  THIS  BE  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

\     LITTLE  itching  of  the  soul ; 
•*•         The  briefest  glimpse  of  a  distant 

goal; 
A  fall — full-face — in  the  cutting  sand ; 

A  gasp,  a  pallor,  an  icy  hand, — 
If  this  be  life  and  death,  I  say 
Then  let  me  die,  and  die  today. 

But  if  life  be  the  surge  I  feel 

Bearing  me  on  through  endless  weal 

'Neath  faithful  suns  and  smiling  stars, 
O'er  soundless  depths  and  gleaming  bars, 
90 


IF  THIS  BE  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

Through  storms  that  threaten,  calms  that 
lull, 

Drunk  with  the  silence  wonderful, 
Or  keen  to  take  the  lore  that  lies 

In  Nature's  fine  immensities; 
If  life  with  all  its  pain  and  stress 

Is  but  a  lure  to  onwardness; 
If  death  reveal  an  ampler  life 

With  greater  love  and  vision  rife, — 
If  such  be  life  and  death,  I  say 

Then  let  me  live  and  die  alway! 


To  James  Schoolcraft  Sherman,  Vice-President  of  the 
United  States,  to  whom  was  presented  at  the  Transporta 
tion  Club,  New  York  City,  January  14,  /pop,  a  gavel  for 
use  in  the  United  States  Senate,  made  from  the  wood  of 
one  of  the  American  gunboats  in  action  at  the  naval  Battle 
of  Champlain  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution. 

PRESENTATION  ODE 


^  |  ^HE  land  lay  hermited  betwixt  the  seas 
As  rich  as  now — gold  in  its  hills,  pow'r 

in  its  streams,  warmth  in  its  leas. 
Magnolia,  maple,  eucalyptus,  pine 
Were  compass-points;  no  dim  and  varying 

governmental  line 
Wavered  along  its  span, 
Although  a  man 

With  skin  of  copper  hue  would  sometimes 
bend  to  drink 

92 


PRESENTATION  ODE 

Above  the  brink 

Of  some  clear  pool  whose  basin  lay 

Hollowed  in  Nature's  way — 

Irregular,  and  mossy  at  the  brim, 

And  friendly,  beckoning  the  skim 

Of  swallows  and  the  feet  of  panting  deer. 

And  God  was  here, — 

Aye,  God,  with  face  enveiled  by  that  fine 

fabric,  we  have  come  to  know 
As  Opportunity, — a   fabric,   O  most  lumi 
nous,  and  lo, 

By  faith,  by  tide,  by  wind,  by  evening  star, 
Men  came  in  little  ships  from  lands  afar, 
And  bent  their  knees  upon  this  hermit  soil, 
And  made  it  blossom  with  the  wand  of  toil ! 

Beneath  the  cleavage  of  the  flashing  blade 
Tall  trees  were  laid 

Prone  in  the  forest,  and  the  clearings,  sweet 
93 


PRESENTATION  ODE 

With  the  lure  of  nurture,  wooed  the  wheat 
And  made  each  grain  a  stalk, 
Full-headed,  while  the  gentle  talk 
Of  women  graced  the  harvest,  and  the  cabin 

fire 

In  winter  met  the  heart's  desire 
For   comradeship   and   thoughtfulness   and 

cheer ; 

All  the  long  year 

Was  benisoned  by  labor,  song  and  prayer, — 
And  love  was  there. 

The  Pilgrims  bred,  for  in  their  loins  lay 

The  ancient  urge  of  Nature.     'T  is  the  way 

Of  sturdy  sires  to  get  them  sturdy  sons, 

And  when  the  time-worn  guns 

Rang  out  to  save  a  heritage 

Of  hope  and  toil,  Youth  vied  with  Age 

In  opening  its  veins 

94 


PRESENTATION  ODE 

Upon  the  plains 

Of  Lexington,  and  wet  the  decks  of  quickly- 

builded  ships 

With  crimson  ooze  from  lips 
Which,  to  the  last,  spake  couraged  words  of 

cheer 

From  hearts  which  knew  nor  fear 
Nor  mood  to  flee, 
Counting  such  death  a  victory! 

Then,  in  a  later  day,  our  Lincoln  came 

And  did  his  work,  and  passed  on  in  a  flame 

Of  glory  and  a  drench  of  tears ! 

The  boasted  years 

We  call  our  own  are  dowered  with  the  touch 

of  vanished  hands. 
The  Western  lands 
Are  sown  with  Pilgrim  wheat,  and  in  the 

strange  new  courage  of  the  hour 
95 


PRESENTATION  ODE 

Which  balks  not  at  the  place  of  gold  or 

pow'r 

If  but  the  Right  may  be, 
We  clearly  see 
The  shining  of  the  face 
Of  him  who  knew  no  race 
Save  man, 

And  made  the  wise  Lincolnian  plan 
Of  State  as  big  and  kind  as  God, 
Knowing  no  rod 

Save  Justice,  with  the  common  good 
Welded  within  the  forge  of  Brotherhood. 

The  Nation's  chief  distinguishment  is  not  its 

tow'rs 

Which,  in  the  morrow's  hours 
May  fall.     Nor  is  it  in  the  lines  of  steel 
Spun  far  to  gain  the  weal 
Of  traffic.     Nay,  rather  must  it  e'er  be  seen 
96 


PRESENTATION  ODE 

Enduring,  glorious,  serene, 

Within  the  souls  of  its  own  sons  who  were 

and  are 
Dreamers  of  Truth  beneath  the  great  white 

Star 

Of  Progress,  pendant  in  the  vaulted  sky 
To  light  this  land  to  its  good  destiny. 

Our     institutions     change,     likewise     our 

laws; 

The  program  of  the  Seasons  knows  its  pause ; 
The  very  rivers  thread  along 
New  courses,  and  the  lark's  blithe  song 
Is  altered  by  the  meadow's  mood ; 
But  every  onward  rood 
Of  the  long  path  our  fathers  chose, — 
Down  to  the  very  close 
Of  days, — is  ours  to  dare,  elate  and  free, 
Clothed  with  that  ancient  loyalty 
97 


PRESENTATION  ODE 

To   Right  which  made  America  the  land 

whose  name 
And  birthright  we  so  proudly  claim. 

And  now,  Sir,  in  your  hand  we  place  this 

wood, 

Symboling  order  and  the  Nation's  good. 
Your  task,  Sir,  is  not  little,  but  the  shades 
Of  patriot  fathers  steal  from  out  the  glades 
Of  early  strife  to  hearten  you,  and  say — 
"Serve  as  we  served;  yours  is  the  greater 

day!" 


98 


AFTER  THE  THORNS 


Night,  soft  Night,  hold  me  close 
and  tell  me 
Where  the  soul  of  me  may  rest!    Wondrous 

woes  befell  me 
All  along  the  Way  of  Life.     Do  not  count 

me  fretful, 
But  I  would  die,  or  live,  or  swoon,  could  I 

but  be  forgetful. 

Calm  Night,  soft  Night,  be  to  me  a  mother; 
She  I  had  has  gone  away,  and  there  is  none 

other. 


99 


IN  A  DESERT  PLACE 

NCE  in  a  desert,  'mid  the  heat 
I  found  a  rock  and  spring, 
And  now  within  my  quiet  home 
Their  ministry  I  sing. 

Long  since  the  rock  and  spring  forgot 

The  worn  and  thirsty  man 
Who   took  the   shade  and   drank  the 
draught, 

When  stopped  the  caravan. 

Exampled  by  the  rock  and  spring, 

O,  Father,  teach  me  yet 
To  bide  where  goes  the  caravan, 

To  serve  and  then  forget. 
100 


THE  LAST  LULLABY 

T    ITTLE  heart,  a  bird  is  flying! 
-L/  Ease  thyself  for  thou  art  dying, 
Wearied  long  by  need  and  trying — 
Take  thy  meed  of  rest. 

Little  heart,  the  sun  is  setting, 
Symbol  of  thine  own  forgetting 
Of  the  chains,  the  lash,  the  fretting — 
Not  one  soul  has  guessed! 


101 


WHEN  YOU  ARE  GONE 

TT 7HEN  you  are  gone  the  phoebe's  call  is 
W        stilled, 
Or  seems  to  be ; 

The  sheen  upon  the  maple's  green  is  dulled 
As  by  a  shadow ; 

My  eyes,  unseeing,  make  me  miss 
The  violets, 

Though  they  are  blooming  there 
As  when  we  stooped  in  quiet  joy 
To  break  their  dew-wet  stems. 
Over  the  stars  a  veil  is  hung, 
And  all  the  sadness  of  the  sea 
1 02 


WHEN  YOU  ARE  GONE 

Is  flung  upon  the  sands. 
(To  feel  your  hands 
Upon  my  brow ! 
To  feel  them — now!) 
The  hurt  of  you  afar 
Is  in  the  sun  and  rain, 
And  I  am  bent  and  old — 
When  you  are  gone. 


103 


TRANSIENCE 

^T^HE  song  I  sang  but  yesterday, 

Alas,  I  sing  no  more ! 
Its  notes  have  died  upon  my  lips, 

For  I  have  passed  the  door 
That  opens  to  another  day, 
Which  asks  an  unfamiliar  lay. 

No  time  without  its  music  is, 
But  songs  and  singers  pass 

Like  prayers  unanswered  by  the  gods, 
Like  shadows  on  the  grass. 

And  yet  it  is  a  goodly  thing 

To  live  one  day,  one  song  to  sing. 

104 


THE  CONQUEROR 

T  FACE  my  failure  with  a  glad  despair ; 
•*•       Along  the  way  I  strove  and  strove 

again; 

And  now  that  I  have  missed  the  goal,  elate 
I  drink  and  laugh  and  speak  a  deep  amen ! 

The  world  was  roseate  before  my  eyes ; 

'T  is  roseate  still,  but  with  the  glow  of 

fires 
That  feed  upon  the  fabric  of  my  dreams, 

And  leave  me  but  the  ash  of  my  desires. 


105 


THE  CONQUEROR 

Yet  I  will  love  my  life  unto  the  end — 
There  is  no  end,  for  life  is  life  for  ay, 

And  by  the  goodness  of  a  God  unknown 
I  '11  dare  the  issues  of  another  day ! 


1 06 


RELINQUISHMENT 

T  TOUCH  thy  lips  and  let  thee  go 
A  And  keep  the  hurt  of  it  for  ay, 
While  over  moor  and  fen  and  hill 
Stretches  the  long,  long  way. 

At  morn  I  hear  the  robin's  call 
And  sense  the  odors  of  the  Spring, 
But  song  within  my  soul  is  pent 
And  hope  has  missed  its  blossoming. 

I  speed  thee  on  thy  later  quest 
And  bow  to  take  my  stent  of  care ; 
Athirst  I  dip  at  Mem'ry's  rill 

And  shrine  thee  in  my  prayer. 
107 


ANDREW  F.  BRANDO 

TT  7"E  call  him  Brandy  in  our  summer 

tongue. 

He  is  not  old,  nor  is  he  very  young, — 
Just  old  enough  to  be  a  boy  again, 

And  young  enough  to  dodge  the  woes  of 

men. 
I  saw  him  first  all  garnished  with  tar, 

For  he  was  fishing  where  the  punkies  are. 
His  catch  that  day  was  light,  likewise  his 

heart, 

The  woods  had  smoothed  his  wrinkles — 
't  is  their  art. 

1 08 


ANDREW  F.  BRANDO 

His  voice  was  like  the  hill-brook  in  its  fall 
'Mongst    rocks    where    woven    branches 

shelter  all; 
He  took  my  hand  as  if  we  long  had  known 

Each  other,  and  would  never  more  be  lone. 
He  came  and  sat  beside  my  oaken  fire 

And  helped  the  flames  to  light  the  camp 

entire ; 

I  pulled  his  latchstring  and  he  met  me  fair, — 
I  could  not  tell  the  things  that  happened 

there ! 
O,  royal  host,  O,  fisherman  of  skill, 

Husband  your  strength  and  live  among  us 

still! 

I  '11  fish  with  you  till  all  my  flies  are  lost, 
Or  all  the  trout  into  the  basket  tossed. 
When  worn  with  toil,  O  friend,  to  you  I  look, 
Craving  a  swig  of  Brandy  on  the  brook! 


109 


THE  MAIDEN 

OHE  came  with  her  new-found  heart  at 
^      morn 

And  stood  by  the  wordless  sea, 
Amid  the  litter  of  lifeless  shells 

Strewn  high  on  the  yellow  lea. 

And  she  looked  away  to  the  land's  far  end 

And  swept  with  her  eyes  the  sea, 
And  cried  as  her  hair  caught  the  shoreward 

wind: 

"Oh,  who  will  my  lover  be  ? 
Pray,  stands  he  tall  in  a  soldier's  shoes, 
Or  sails  he  over  the  sea  ? 
no 


THE  MAIDEN 

Or  reaps  he  grain  in  the  Autumn  field — 

This  lover  who  lives  for  me? 
Or  sings  he  songs  in  the  city's  streets, 

Or  casts  his  net  in  the  sea, 
Or  writes  his  heart  on  a  living  page — 

Oh,  who  will  my  lover  be?" 

Aye,  ever  she  comes  with  her  new-found 
heart 

And  stands  by  the  wordless  sea, 
And  cries  to  the  wild,  unansw'ring  winds : 

"Oh,  who  will  my  lover  be?" 


in 


THE  JAIL-BREAKER 

T  CAUGHT  my  happiness  and  chained  it 

*      fast. 

It  laughed  and  slipped  the  fetters,  and  I 

knew 

My  prisoner  had  been  a  dream,  a  breath, 
A  hint  of  mignonette,  a  drop  of  dew. 


112 


TF  I  could  be  near  thee,  my  love,  at  the 
•*•      morn, 
When  the  sun  on  the  meadows  is  wooing 

the  dew, 
And  near  thee  at  noon  when  the  kine  seek 

the  river 
And  lash  their  brown  sides  in  the  shade  of 

the  yew ; 

If  I  could  be  near  thee  at  every  sun's  setting, 
And  when  the  foamed  sky  with  its  stars  is 

alight — 
Heart  of  me,  soul  of  me,  flesh  of  me  pulsing, 


AS  WOMAN  LOVETH 

Ah,  that  would  be  heaven  and  that  would 
be  right. 

But  since  it  may  never  be  thus,  O  beloved, 
I  take  with  glad  hands  what  the  gods  deign 

to  send — 
A  line  from  thy  heart,  or  thine  eyes'  secret 

glances, 
The  sound  of  thy  footfall,  our  spirits'  soft 

blend. 
To  glimpse  from  my  lattice  thy  form  in  its 

passing, 
To  sense  that  thou  art,  though  afar  on  the 

main, 

Is  bread  to  me,  wine  to  me,  kiss  and  posses 
sion — 

Aye,   paltry  the  kingdoms   where   other 
queens  reign ! 


114 


THE  COMRADE 

TJE  thou  young,  I  will  romp  with  thee, 
^*^      Sun  up,  sun  high,  sun  down,  stars; 
Be  thou  old,  I  will  lean  with  thee, 
Cackling  over  the  cattle-bars. 

Be  thou  sad,  I  will  weep  with  thee : 
Tears  are  water,  and,  mingled,  dry. 

Be  thou  glad,  I  will  laugh  with  thee. 
Mirth  is  maddest  when  two  are  by. 

Be  thou  lone,  I  will  come  to  thee: 
Twaining  hearts  make  dearth  of  woe. 

Be  thou  ill,  I  will  sit  by  thee, 
And  bid  thy  devil  quickly  go. 


THE  COMRADE 

Be  thou  living,  I  '11  live  with  thee, 
Strong  in  waking  and  warm  in  sleep. 

Be  thou  dead,  I  will  lie  with  thee 
Under  the  cedars,  cold  and  deep. 


116 


FRANCES 

X7"OU  were  a  dog,  Frances,  a  dog, 
•"•    And  I  was  just  a  man. 
The  Universal  Plan, — 
Well,  't  would  have  lacked  something 
Had  it  lacked  you. 

Somehow  you  fitted  in  like  a  far  star 
Where  the  vast  spaces  are ; 
Or  like  a  grass-blade 
Which  helps  the  meadow 
To  be  a  meadow ; 
Or  like  a  song  which  kills  a  sigh 
And  sings  itself  on  and  on 
117 


FRANCES 

Till  all  the  world  is  full  of  it. 

You  were  the  real  thing,  Frances,  a  soul ! 

Encarcassed,  yes,  but  still  a  soul 

With  feeling  and  regard  and  capable  of  woe. 

Oh,  yes,  I  know,  you  were  a  dog,  but  I  was 

just  a  man. 

I  did  not  buy  you,  no,  you  simply  came, 
Lost,  and  squatted  on  my  door-step 
With  that  wide  strap  about  your  neck, — 
A  worn  one  with  a  huge  buckle. 
When  bigger  dogs  pitched  onto  you, 
You  stood  your  ground  and  gave  them  all 

you  had 
And  took  your  wounds  unwhimpering,  but 

hid  them. 

My,  but  you  were  game ! 
You  were  fine-haired 
And  marked  with  Princeton  colors, 
Black  and  deep  yellow. 
118 


FRANCES 

No  other  fellow 

Could  make  you  follow  him, 

For  you  had  chosen  me  to  be  your  pal. 

My  whistle  was  your  law. 

You  put  your  paw 

Upon  my  palm 

And  in  your  calm, 

Deep  eyes  was  writ 

The  promise  of  long  comradeship. 

When  I  came  home  from  work, 

Late  and  ill-tempered, 

Always  I  heard  the  patter  of  your  feet  upon 

the  oaken  stairs ; 

Your  nose  was  at  the  door-crack ; 
And  whether  I  'd  been  bad  or  good  that  day 
You  fawned,  and  loved  me  just  the  same. 
It  was  your  way  to  understand; 
And  if  I  struck  you  my  harsh  hand 
Was  wet  with  your  caresses. 
119 


FRANCES 

You  took  my  leavings,  crumb  and  bone, 

And  stuck  by  me  through  thick  and  thin. 

You  were  my  kin. 

And  then  one  day  you  died, 

At  least  that 's  what  they  said. 

There  was  a  box  and 

You  were  in  it,  still, 

With  a  sprig  of  myrtle  and  your  leash  and 

blanket, 
And  put  deep ; 

But  though  you  sleep  and  ever  sleep 
I  sense  you  at  my  heels ! 


1 20 


A  LOST  MESSAGE 

A     FADED   letter,   wave-cast,   flutt'ring 
*  here 

Upon  the  shore  where  my  feet  chanced  to 

stray ! 
Fain  would  I  know  what  lover's  plaint  or 

plea 

It  bore,  or  e'en  perhaps  the  tidings  of  a  day 
Which  sank  a  sailor  to  his  ocean  tomb, 
Or  saw  the  citadels  of  some  far  town 
Crumble  before  the  guns  of  marshaled  hosts 
Ere  the  red  sun,  which  smiles  at  strife,  went 

down. 

What  heart  was  in  the  letter  ?  or  what  hope  ? 
121 


A  LOST  MESSAGE 

What  cry  of  pain,  or  chant  of  victory? 
Deeply  the  message  lies,  hidden  for  ay, 
Within  the  throbbing  bosom  of  the  sea ! 


122 


BY  LOVE  OF  HER 

LASSIE  girl,  I  never  dreamed 

That  I  would  love  you  as  I  do ! 
You  came  unbidden  to  my  life 
And  now  my  life  is  simply — you. 

The  grass  is  greener  'neath  my  feet; 

The  sun  is  redder  o'er  the  hill ; 
And  oftener  at  dusk  I  hear 

The  chant  of  some  far  whip-poor-will. 

The  squirrels  gray  climb  higher  than 
The  'foretime  squirrels  used  to  climb, 
123 


BY  LOVE  OF  HER 

And  from  their  tow'r  the  bells  ring  out 
With    strange,    new    sweetness    in    their 
chime. 

The  glad  stream  laves  its  silver  stones 

And  swifter  runs  unto  its  sea, 
And  all  the  joy  a  heart  can  hold 

The  kindly  gods  have  sent  to  me. 

And  so  the  ox-eyed  daisies  sway 
With  grace  no  daisies  knew  before, 

And  once  I  surely  saw  the  stern, 
Dark  ocean  gently  kiss  the  shore. 

Erstwhile  a  dull-sens'd  man  of  clay, 
How  blind  was  I  until  you  came 

Bringing  love's  vision  to  my  eyes, 
Charming  life's  embers  into  flame ! 
124 


BY  LOVE  OF  HER 

O  lassie  girl,  I  never  dreamed 
That  I  would  love  you  as  I  do! 

You  came  unbidden  to  my  life 
And  now  my  life  is  simply — you. 


125 


THE  WEAVER  OF  THE  WOOD 

T  WALKED    the    wood    through    leafy 

paths  unknown 
And  found  a  green  mantilla  woven  on  a 

stone, 

All  dext'rously  in  intricate  design, 
By  unseen  fingers  through  the  rain  and  shine 
Of  many  fitful  days. 

My  lady's  shoulders  ne'er  compelled  amaze 
With  drape  surpassing  this, 
Yet,  save  my  own,  the  eye  of  man  must  miss 
This  artistry  in  mossy  fiber  shown — 
This  green  mantilla  woven  on  a  stone. 
126 


THE  MARINER 

GOD,  call  out  to  me ! 

Amid  the  voices  of  the  tossing  sea, — 
Competing,    clamorous,    bidding    for    my 

soul, — 

Give  me  thy  cheer  and  let  me  see  the  scroll, 
Full-lit  by  myriad  steady  stars, 
Whereon  are  chartered  clear  the  deeps  and 

bars 

Of  life's  broad  ocean  where  my  sail  is  set. 
The  course  is  dim  to  me — aye,  dim,  and 

yet 

Somewhere,  afar  maybe,  with  lights  agleam, 

Waits  the  fair  harbor  of  my  hope  and  dream. 

127 


THE  MARINER 

The   storm   is   high — astern  the  shelt'ring 

lea — 
Dear  God,  call  out  to  me! 


128 


AFTER  TOIL 

T  KNOW  a  path,   shell-bordered,   where 

the  hollyhocks  abloom 
Are  drawn  in  parti-colored  ranks  to  let  me 

pass  between, 
And  the  sun  upon  the  windows  of  a  dainty 

curtained  room 
Has  laid  its  parting  benison  in  iridescent 

sheen. 

The  bucket  in  the  latticed  well  with  fresh- 
drawn  water  drips, 

And    the    dipper,    hung    await   within    its 
wonted,  shaded  place, 
129 


AFTER  TOIL 

Seems  quite  to  sense  my  weariness  and 
beckon  to  my  lips, 

And  there  's  water  in  the  basin  for  the  cool 
ing  of  my  face. 

The   linen   on   the   table,   set   for   two,    is 

smoothed  and  white, 
And  the  berries  in  their  crystal  dish  with 

sugar  powdered  o'er, 
And  I  think  there  's  something  extra  in  the 

baking-tins  to-night, 
And  some  one  waiting  for  me  at  the  open 

cottage  door. 

O  Prince,  condone  my  eagerness — for  hurry 

blame  me  less, 
And  be  not  grieved  because  I  envy  not  your 

place  of  state; 

130 


AFTER  TOIL 

T  is  time  for  home  and  her,  O  Prince — T  m 

needing  her  caress, 
And  I  know  her  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the 

latchet  of  the  gate. 


13* 


REVIEW 

r\IMLY  the  spent  days  range  themselves 
^*^       in  rows  ; 

Backward  we  look  upon  the  serried  files; 
And  what  strong  heart  would  fain  recall  the 

blows, 
Fate-struck, — the  weariness,  the  tears,  the 

smiles  ? 

We  did  not  live  as  we  had  planned  to  do ; 
We  did  not  walk  the  path  our  eyes  descried ; 
What  deemed  we  sweet  turned  out  but  bitter 

rue; 
Our  firstling  joys  came  fair,  but  quickly  died. 


REVIEW 

Still  the  mosaic,  Life,  so  deftly  wrought, 
Within  the  halls  of  memory  is  hung 
As  wonderful  as  if  the  things  we  sought 
Had  all  been  found,  and  all  our  songs  been 
sung. 


133 


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